


The Price of Power

by Angstier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abaddon: Queen of Hell, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, M/M, dark!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angstier/pseuds/Angstier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic starts where Season 8 left off. The night the angels fell: Castiel is left with no memory, while Dean tries desperately to search for him miles away, aided by Sam, Crowley & Kevin, who are facing complex challenges of their own. S9. Heading for 2014. Fallen Angels. Dark!Sam. Lucifer. Destiel: Castiel & Dean in love. Abaddon: Queen of Hell. 100k+.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen Angels

**01 – Fallen Angels**

It was a strange night, when fire fell from the Heavens. A meteor shower, greater than anything Gilbert Turner had seen in an entire lifetime of star-gazing, rained down on earth above his farm and awoke him during the night. His wife, Marie, was already up and their bedroom window was open, letting in the light of what looked like hundreds of explosions across thousands of miles of sky.

Gilbert didn't take credit for being the only man who saw it happen - all across the US and probably further, people gave reports of having witnessed the phenomenon, an unexpected show of bright shooting stars. What made the night interesting for him, however, was that it came hand-in-hand with a second event of equal importance. An event that kept his friends asking him to repeat the tale over and over again on summer nights they spent smoking thick cigarettes and drinking whiskey in celebration of a long day's work. It was the night when a stranger wandered onto his property.

Forgetting the cold and the darkness, Gilbert and Marie had jumped out of bed simultaneously when they saw the meteor show and saw the other was awake. They grabbed their bathrobes and rushed to the window, not saying a word, not believing their eyes. It seemed too amazing to take in, an act of God saved for this particular moment, because Gilbert was filled with a sense of wonderment he thought Marie shared. They stayed together close, in awe.

"Look!"

A meteor crashed to the earth tens of miles away. Definitely crashed. Gilbert stared at it with an open mouth, trying to make sense of what it could mean.

"Are they all falling down?" he asked.

Marie didn't answer. She couldn't know for sure. Her eyes were transfixed to something else she had seen, a thin hand brought up to her lips.

"Gilbert!"

That's when he saw it. A silhouette on their lawn. Moving towards the house.

If the meteorite crashing down on no man's land hadn't knocked Gilbert's sense of wonderment and awe into panic, then spotting this stranger certainly did. It was as if he were only realising now that something was very wrong. Wetting his lips, Gilbert waited for the next explosion of a shooting star to illuminate the garden. The stranger was in their yard. He took this as reason enough to be scared.

"Stay back, Marie. I'll get my rifle..."

He lumbered across the room in haste to their wardrobe.

"What do you think's happening?" Marie asked him in a hushed voice. She switched on the bedroom light.

"I don't know," Gilbert admitted heavily, reaching for his gun, "but we're about to find out."

They headed downstairs. Marie was close at his heels, staring over his shoulder and over his rifle to the front door. They couldn't see anyone. Gilbert supposed the man could have walked around to the back. He was right.

There were footsteps moving across the creaky porch out back. Marie clutched at his shoulder, reaching into her own bathrobe for a hand-gun, but Gilbert motioned for her to be cautious. He switched on the living room light, making the footsteps outside pause. He headed for the back door in a moment of bravery, rifle first.

Outside on the porch, half-concealed in the shadow of their living room wall, was a man. Dressed in a long trench coat, he was unarmed. At the sight of Gilbert's loaded gun, he stopped dead, but didn't seem sure what was happening. He knew enough to stand still, at least. Gilbert tightened the grip on his gun.

"What's your business?" he demanded.

The man didn't respond.

"Your business, stranger. Step from the shadows."

The man still didn't answer, but did what was asked of him. He stepped forward to reveal that he was a stranger with messy hair and frightened eyes. He was breathing heavily, looking from Gilbert to Marie.

"Why are you here?" asked Gilbert less harshly. The man looked innocent enough.

"I... I believe I'm lost."

"Hands!"

The man brought his hands up, palms out. His brow was furrowed as if he were trying to work out what was happening.

"What's your name, stranger?"

The man struggled. He looked more uncomfortable with every passing moment. "I..."

"How did you get here?"

"I don't know."

Gilbert raised his rifle one last time. "I'm warning you, stranger. Men ain't kind in these parts. You're better off answering me."

He expected the intruder to be alarmed, to back away peacefully, to offer a few excuses and polite words, but he didn't. He stood stock still and the longer Gilbert stared, the more apparent it became to him that this man was broken. As meteors shot across the sky at hundreds of miles an hour, throwing fire in their wake, the man trembled where he stood, pained, panicked.

"Please," he urged, catching Gilbert off guard, "I... I don't know who I am."

Gilbert was surprised to find he felt guilty. Looking down the barrel of his rifle, into the grey face of this intruder, he saw shooting stars gleam in his pained, shining eyes. Perhaps it was because of the stars that Gilbert felt a sense of pity he rarely blessed any of the farmland animals with, nevermind the people. This man was a wreck.

Marie and Gilbert liked to consider themselves decent people. Honest folk. On top of that, they liked to say they'd take just about anyone into their home, assuming they didn't pose a threat, because everyone deserved a chance. From the look in this broken man's eyes, Gilbert could see that he was neither a lunatic nor a con-man. He was lost.

Gilbert lowered his rifle, straightening up.

"Come on in," he said, "there's some fresh chicken in the kitchen."

The stranger's eyes lit up. He seemed to breathe properly for the first time. "Thank you."

Gilbert turned his back and headed for the living room, but Marie stopped him. She put a hand on his shoulder, stunned, her eyes glued to him.

"Just one meal," he grunted.

She didn't say a word. As Gilbert passed, she seemed interested only in keeping an eye on the newcomer, gun in hand. She closed the door after him. Gilbert headed for the kitchen.

"You hungry?" he asked the moment he opened the fridge.

It was a casual question, one he had no doubt about, but the stranger stopped and apparently considered the matter in great detail. He glanced at the plates of leftovers Gilbert brought out and rose a hand up to his stomach slowly.

"Yes."

"I'll just get you a plate," said Marie kindly.

They brought him out food and offered him to sit at the breakfast table, where everything was. Normally, Gilbert would have complained for them to move into a room he could sit in, but the night's events, as well as needing his rifle, made him feel wide awake and put his bad knee on the back burner. He noticed the stranger hadn't touched his food yet.

"You eat meat, don't you?" he asked.

"I don't believe that I've -"

Gilbert laughed before he could finish the sentence. "I'd say start now before it gets cold, but considering it's midnight's leftovers - "

Marie hit his shoulder playfully, distracting him from the stranger's face, which remained pained. This man had clearly been through a great deal of loss. When Marie moved away, Gilbert cleared his throat and decided to start again, driven by sympathy.

He reached out for a salad leaf, trying to start the conversation casually with the stranger.

"So, do you have a misses back home?"

"I don't believe so, no," the stranger answered slowly, his blue eyes glazed beneath a furrowed brow.

"Work? Housing?"

"I... I can't remember."

"What about family?"

At this, the man fell silent. Gilbert watched him with interest, expecting him to crack a smile over a fond memory of his wife and kids, but the man was upset. Right in front of Marie, over their roast chicken and salad, the man was teary-eyed. Gilbert chewed the loose salad leave with his front teeth, thinking the matter over, feeling more pity for this lost man. He was childlike.

"Eat up," he said bluntly, but not unkindly. "You'll feel better with some food in you. Hell, you can even stay the night, if you want."

The stranger looked up, relieved and confused. "Thank you."

Marie's face snapped up too. Gilbert ignored her for the moment, reaching around to pour himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly, refraining from asking questions. It would upset the stranger. Not many locals liked to talk about their personal lives and he seemed to feel the same.

"Gilbert," said Marie eventually, "can I speak to you for just a moment?"

He pursed his lips, nodding and putting his glass down. "I don't see why not."

Marie headed from the room briskly, urging him to hurry. In the front room, as soon as they were out of earshot, she pulled him aside.

"I don't know about this, Gilbert," she whispered frantically, peering back over her shoulder as if she expected some unlawful act to go on the moment they turned their backs. "I don't know if I feel safe letting strangers into our house. This man is a stranger, after all. Especially without a story, we can't know for sure that he isn't trouble."

Gilbert, concerned for his wife, thought it over slowly. All the while, he glanced around and watched the man, who was sitting at the breakfast table as before. What Gilbert saw, however, wasn't any criminal action, but was a sight that lowered his spirits. The man's shoulders were tense and his movements were as stilled as a rabbit caught by the ears.

"He won't do nothin', Marie," he assured her.

"He says he doesn't remember a thing."

"Then he needs help."

"How can we help?"

"He's not going to do anything," Gilbert repeated, flustered this time. "He's a good man."

Before Marie could pose an argument, an idea struck him.

"Goodman," he murmured slyly, grunting in laughter to himself. "That's what we'll call him for now."

Marie wasn't convinced nor impressed. Despite his exhaustion and his rash decision-making, however, Gilbert found he wasn't wrong.

After they showed their new guest his bedroom and a fresh pair of pajamas, they went to bed without much talking and awoke, well-rested, to find everything was in order. They found the stranger some fresh clothes on the first day and cleaned up his shoes, until he looked much smarter than he had in that dirt-covered trench coat. He dressed in jeans and an old plaid shirt Gilbert's only son had worn before he moved out. Marie taught him how to comb his hair and learnt that he truly didn't remember anything.

The stranger helped out around the house each day and night, even accompanying Gilbert to handle the yardwork when he needed it. Completing tasks without complaint came easy, but when it came to looking after himself, the stranger didn't seem to have a clue what he was doing. Marie grew fond of him as days passed and he posed no problem or threat. It was after a long day of work and hours ahead of schedule when Gilbert first truly appreciated the help.

Heaving a great sigh of accomplishment and turning his head up, Gilbert faced the stranger, who stood as still as ever, as if unsure how to act.

"Just an average Joe, aren't you?"

The stranger's brow furrowed. "Is that my name?"

"Huh?"

Gilbert was confused, but not a moment of embarrassment crossed the man's face. They stood looking at each other in the late-evening sun, until Gilbert realised the man thought it was possible. Seeing no reason to refuse the man a probable memory, Gilbert didn't fuss over the matter for too long.

"Does it sound like your name?" he asked. "It's your call, after all."

The man hesitated for a long while.

"I afraid I can't remember."

Gilbert wondered if this would ever stop disappointing him at heart. He wanted this man to be free, wanted him to find his purpose. It seemed hopeless when the man stared at the floor, apparently trying very hard to grasp any sort of memory.

"Well, Joe," said Gilbert heavily, reaching out a hand to pat his shoulder with a smile, "you'll remember soon enough."

Joe - who by this point, looked relieved - nodded his head once, slowly. Gilbert knew 'Joe' probably wasn't his real name, but he was willing to bet it was close. 'Joe' suited the guy - at least enough to calm Gilbert's nerves, and hopefully even Marie's by the time he told her the news. Joe was a part of the household now.

Although Marie was fond of Joe, she wasn't pleased to hear he had been given a name and that he would be staying for longer. It was a week before she brought it up with Gilbert. In their bedroom, Gilbert was undoing his shoelaces by the bed, waiting to get changed into his evening lounging clothes, while she paced up and down the room, glancing out of the shadowy windows. The last rays of blue skies were visible above the trees, farmland, and fields that were illuminated in a pink and gold sunset. Gilbert preferred to face the morning sun.

"He's still out there," said Marie stiffly. "What do you suppose he's doing all the way out there?"

Gilbert made an attempt to straighten up and glance over her shoulder, but her arms clung to the curtains and blocked his view. Pursing his lips, he turned away again, heaving in a great sigh.

"I dunno, Marie. How are the blackbirds doing out there?"

"I highly doubt he cares for blackbirds," she snapped. "I don't think he'd even know that's what they're named."

"So, what harm is he?" grunted Gilbert, as if this settled things.

"He's a stranger, nonetheless."

He thought about it for a while, but couldn't see how this was a problem. Marie was paranoid. That was all. His thoughts were confirmed when she turned around, pulling her robe over her sleeping-gown with skinny hands.

"We've got enough skeletons hiding in our closet as it is, Gilbert. You know that."

He didn't argue with her. He knew she was right, but he took pity on the stranger, Joe. for days, he tried to find a level-ground between keeping Marie happy and doing what was right. Over a Sunday dinner, in which Joe remained particularly quiet, Gilbert decided to try and reach out and bond with him. Marie stuck the television on in the living room, but Gilbert spoke over it from where they sat in the dining room.

"It's a strange night you showed up on," he said, "with those shooting stars. In all my years spent looking after my father's farm, I ain't seen nothin' like it. Honest to God."

Joe didn't seem wholly delighted to hear it. He looked out across the living room to the back porch, as if scared.

"Do you think it will happen again?" he asked.

Gilbert had to wonder to himself. "This time of year, we get a lot of meteors. Nothing as extreme normally, though."

Joe nodded politely, his face grey.

"Here, in fact - let me show you."

Gilbert stood up, catching Marie's attention from across the room.

"Gilbert," she called to him seriously, "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"I've got it, Marie," he sighed. "Don't you worry."

Indicating to Joe that he should follow, Gilbert switched on the back light and opened the porch door. They headed outside, Marie close at their heels, until they hit the creaky wooden floorboards and felt the cold breeze. They were under a cloudless night sky. Stars stretched out as far as they could see, spinning slowly around and around. The Milky Way greeted them warmly.

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Gilbert asked gently, cracking a smile to the Heavens. "Yes, I reckon you'd have more than a good chance of seeing a few meteors tonight. We could camp out here for a while, if you want to."

"Gilbert, look!" cried Marie, pointing up at the sky.

He almost missed it in the time it took to turn his head, but he caught the tail of the meteor. It was nothing compared to what they had seen nights ago, but it filled him with a sense of humble comfort.

"My God! What a beautiful land we live in."

It made him feel proud to own this stretch of land. He wondered what his father would have said and thought back to the nights he spent watching the stars with his own parents, then his own children years later.

"Gilbert -"

"Look, another one!" he cried, pointing up at meteors that passed. "Ain't it perfect!"

"Gilbert!"

Marie's tone was harsh, urgent. Gilbert turned around at once.

Nothing was wrong, but Marie had her hand around Joe's shoulder. He hadn't moved, hadn't said a word, but he was crying again. They didn't understand why. Even when Gilbert stared at him, asking what's wrong, he couldn't speak. It was only when they brought him inside, white-faced and concerned, that he finally froze up. He stopped crying and stayed still. Nothing they did convinced him to speak.

Marie and Gilbert tried to pass it off as a one-time event, convincing themselves that Joe was tired and had been through too much work that day, but even the next morning he was barely animated. He ate breakfast with them normally, did his work normally, but something was hurting him from inside - Gilbert could see it. What came as a real shock to him was when Joe started to blame himself for the meteor shower.

"What do you mean?" Gilbert had asked him, considering the possibility that he was mad. "How could anyone cause shooting stars?"

"I don't know," Joe would say, speaking more to himself than anything. "I don't know why it hurt so much, but I feel that I'm responsible."

Gilbert didn't understand how anyone could feel bad about a meteor shower, nevermind be responsible for it, but he kept his mouth shut about it. He chewed the idea over in his mind, trying the best he could to give Joe credit. He quickly decided to try and keep Marie away from hearing Joe ramble, but it was only a matter of time before he turned to her for advice too. She wasn't pleased to hear it. She shared Gilbert's dread.

"Should we take him to a hospital?"

It seemed to happen too fast. Before Gilbert knew it, he took out his old red truck and told Joe alongside Marie where they were going and why. Joe saw no problem with it. It was a cloudy evening, so Marie packed his coat in a bag and they all headed for the truck. It took a long time before they were seen by a doctor. After hours of waiting and hours of nurses asking Joe questions and checking his head for injuries, they concluded that Joe would have to visit a local facility for further tests and questioning. The Doctor thought it was best.

Nervously, Gilbert and Marie had explained their situations to the Doctor. He smiled warmly at them, before proceeding to suggest with no argument from Joe that he might be better off in the hands of a psychiatric hospital. Once there, he said, Joe could be looked after by professions who know what to expect from his record so far and who would do everything in their power to make sure he could find his friends and family again when he was well enough to. As soon as this option was explained, they were decided.

They had Joe over for only a few more days. Gilbert was sad to see him go, but knew there was nothing else he could do. Joe needed help that was out of his control.

"Would you like to take your coat back?" Marie asked him on his leaving day.

Joe nodded, reaching for the trench coat politely. "Thank you."

Once near, he ran his hands along the collar of the coat as if he had been wearing the thing non-stop for years. Gilbert was convinced he might have, except that the stitching was new and Marie had only needed to wash a night's worth of mud off of it to make it look perfect. Gilbert had been in the great outdoors long enough to know. Joe was a city boy.

When they arrived at the hospital, having drove for hours, Gilbert thought it looked welcoming enough, but knew Joe would never find it as comfortable as a country house. As they stood outside the gates of the place, resting by the truck, he felt it was a great loss.

"Don't you go running off with just any gal, now," Gilbert warned Joe warmly, smiling the best he could. "I suspect you have someone waiting for you back home. She'll be worth it, once you find her."

Joe nodded at once, taking in the words seriously, before his eyes moved to Marie's. She hadn't said a word.

"I wanted to thank you," he said, "for your help. I owe you more than I can say."

Marie smiled, the gesture loosening the wrinkles on her face, making her look as young as Gilbert had ever seen her. She was happy. "Well, you best look after yourself from this point on, mister, and listen to your Doctors. Not all of them are as kind as I am."

For a moment, Joe looked worried about this. It reminded Gilbert again of a child and made him wonder just what had happened to crush this man. Frowning, he placed a hammy hand on Joe's shoulder, patting it a few times.

"You be good now, Joe."

After a few more words of goodbye, they left. On the drive home, Gilbert felt guilty for leaving Joe behind like that, but Marie kept on telling him how this was the better option, how the Doctors would look after Joe there and how he'd have a better chance now than ever of being found by his family if he was on records. Gilbert felt like he had been fighting back regret for a long time, so in desperation, he listened to his wife with childish readiness.

He succeeded in forgetting about the problem, accepting that it wasn't his business. Even on the short trip back home, however, under the starry night sky, he couldn't stop himself from remembering a curious fact about Joe Goodman's arrival. He wasn't the first man who had been discovered by local houses, suffering amnesia, unable to say who he was. Joe was probably the second or third case Gilbert had heard about in the whole county. Problem was, what could have happened to wreck so many folks so far away?

-S- 

This place was strange. That's the first thing he thought about when they brought him in, an arm linked to the sleeve of his trench coat. This place was very strange. There were high, white walls that held up grey ceilings and windows with grates over them on the upper floors. He wished he didn't have to leave Gilbert and Marie or the farm they kept. He had felt comfortable there. The only bonus here was that they kept him away from the night sky.

They fed him at certain hours here and asked him a lot of questions. They kept telling him that he had suffered a great loss and had forgotten about his past, but he didn't understand much of it. They wouldn't let him outside. That was the worst part. There were bees and fields and trees he hadn't yet seen, sunlight he missed almost every hour of, but they still wouldn't let him out. Even when he was good, they said it was too dangerous, that he would get lost and forget his way back. He didn't think he would.

On his first day, he noticed something was different about the people here. They not only acted differently to the men and women around Gilbert and Marie's farm, but some of them looked strange. From the moment he had walked in here, he had seen their scarred faces, lit up, deformed, terrifying. No one else seemed to notice. No one commented on it, at least. He was too terrified to ask why and thought it would be rude. He didn't want to offend anyone, but found it hard look them in the face. This was a strange place.

In his first week, he had been assigned an early lunch and had entered the hall as he was told to. Past nurses and guards that terrified him, he walked amongst people sitting at tables, eating. It was only a few minutes after entering the dining hall that he saw somebody he recognised. He stopped dead.

The woman opposite him seemed as alarmed as he was. The more he stared at her, however, the more he realised he couldn't remember where she was from. He didn't know what he remembered about her. All he knew was that he recognised her. He felt drawn to her, like he was a brother to her.

He sat down at her table. She flinched, brown hair flying around her. This woman of over fifty was his sister. He knew it. Some painful memory crossed her face.

"Castiel..."

He stared at her blankly, confused.

"Castiel," she repeated, louder this time. Her eyes were huge, her mouth agape. She stood up from her chair, pushing it back loudly, but all Joe did was stare up at her in awe. He knew that name...

"We fell," she whispered. It was in such hushed astonishment, such bold reverence that it made Joe feel like she _knew_. "Castiel, we fell, we all fell!"

He shook his head, startled. "I - I don't understand what you're saying. I don't know what that means."

People were moving across the room, alarmed by the woman's voice, which rose in panic.

"We fell, Castiel! We all fell!"

"I -"

"Please, tell me why!" she screamed at him, scaring him. "Castiel, tell me why! Why does God do this? What did God want? Castiel - !"

Someone grabbed her arms, holding her back, cutting her words short. She was fighting, screaming, trying to lash out at Joe directly with teary-eyes. Only, Joe rather felt that was his name. Castiel...

The dining hall became calm the moment she left. That's the first thing Castiel noticed, followed by a hollow feeling in his chest. No one asked him what she had meant and none of the nurses speaking on the outskirts of the room asked him questions either - not even the most terrifying ones. He ate lunch in silence.

People still referred to him as 'Joe' from that day on and although he never contradicted them, he rather thought he remembered what his real name was. Castiel. Even if he didn't know who that woman had been, it stuck with him, as did her expression, her tone. People around him told him she was talking nonsense every time he spoke about her and they got annoyed when he mentioned his interest in the name 'Castiel', but he knew there was something important about it.

"My name is Castiel," he would say, "and I'm..."

A lost man. That's what the nurses thought when they heard this and looked at him with pitying eyes. He was neither aggressive nor intrusive, but was simply that: a man who had lost everything.

"Joe, it's time for your medication."

Castiel did as he was asked without hesitation.

"When can I see my family?" he asked her.

The nurse's face lit up for a moment, as if he had taken her by surprise. They both knew, however, that he didn't remember who his family was. She had been informed that upon his arrival, Castiel had repeated a fact he knew to be true: that his first memory, even before the falling stars, was speaking to God himself. God had been frightening, had held Castiel down, and had told him that he should find a wife, find a new life, make babies. There was no doubt in Castiel's mind that this was his fate. He didn't know what else to do.

"God told me to find a family," Castiel told her steadily, trying to remain clam. "He told me to seek a wife, to have children. I think I have a family waiting for me. I think I always had one."

The nurse didn't say anything, but took the little paper cup from his hands. "All finished?"

"Yes."

"Lunch starts in ten minutes."

Castiel nodded, but couldn't say a word more. He enjoyed eating, but it always felt strange, like he wasn't supposed to be here. In the dining hall, he looked around for the woman who had spoken to him days ago, but he hadn't seen her ever since they took her from the hall. He thought they may have taken her someplace else completely.

Someone had caught Castiel staring around. One of the nurses with the horrid faces. Castiel dropped his gaze as quickly as he could, feeling scared, but the nurse didn't stop staring at him. He moved across the room slowly. Castiel saw it out of the corner of his eye, the way the nurse wove between tables of other patients, his face a stark mask of horror.

"Is there a problem?" the nurse asked him.

Castiel shook his head. He didn't dare speak.

"You were looking for somebody," he pointed out. "Who was it? That woman from your first week here?"

Castiel wished the nurse would go away or at least stop staring. His face made Castiel want to back away, but he didn't know if he could. "I'm not looking for anyone..."

"We both know that's a lie, Castiel."

He looked up at the nurse at once, then back down, because he really was quite scary. The warped face of the man in front of him attempted something like a smile. He then spoke, his voice low, sounding pleased.

"She was your sister, you know."

Castiel became very still. He even held his breath, caught between amazement and shock.

"She was your sister," the nurse repeated, "but you're never going to see her again."

He was happy to say it. Castiel could tell. In an instant, however, he turned away, leaving.

Castiel was shaking. He wanted his sister back. He wanted to understand what had happened.

He was sure that whoever his family was, they'd know him by his name. He tried to picture it, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't figure out what it would feel like to be in a world like that. He couldn't even picture what his wife and kids might have looked like. It was a faint dream, one that haunted him every time he thought back to the man, God, who urged him to find a new life. The only thing Castiel dreamed about at night were the stars that fell in his earliest memories.

Castiel hoped that someone would find him and explain everything. He waited in hospitals and did what the nurses asked him to, all the while knowing that every day he stayed in here, every day he refrained from running outside for some place better, he had more hope of being found. Someone, somewhere was surely searching for him and soon, they'd come to rescue him.

The problem was, no one ever did.


	2. Men of Letters

**02 – Men of Letters**

The sky had turned black. It was as if the absence of the Angels had taken out the stars, because Dean couldn't see a thing. Streaks of colour flashed over his eyes where the light had shot across his vision minutes ago, making him feel dizzy as he reached around for Sam's arm, trying to make sure he was alright.

"Sammy?"

There came no response. Dean's heart beat hard in his chest, thumping in his ears. The warm body of the Impala against his palm was his only sense of direction. He reached in his pocket for a lighter. Flicking it open, he could see again, but the flame cast another colourful patch on his eyes. He never thought he could be so terrified and blinded by the sight of Angels.

"Sam?" he asked again, keeping his voice determinedly strong. "Come on, Sam, you're okay!"

He was sure of his own words. With hands that threatened to tremble, he gripped at Sam's shoulders, neglecting the lighter, keeping his head up.

"I'm alright, Dean," Sam murmured. "I'm fine..."

He didn't sound it. Dean shook his head, crouching on his feet and urging Sam up.

"Let's get you back into the Impala, alright? You'll be okay, Sam. Come on."

It wasn't easy. Sam tried the best he could to stagger back into his feet, but Dean held up most of his weight, trying to keep him balanced. When he made it back into the Impala, he seemed to be struggling to stay conscious, but he still tried to speak. With his head leant against the back of his chair, he turned in the darkness.

"What happened, Dean?" he asked. "The Angels, they're..?"

Dean didn't want to answer. He didn't want to even think about it, especially with Sam staring at him with a concerned expression in the near darkness. Dean knew exactly what had happened up in Heaven. He remember what Naomi had warned Cas about, that Metatron tricked Castiel into completing the wrong trials. To banish all Angels from Heaven. Dean didn't know what happened to Castiel. He felt sick just thinking about it.

"Whatever happened, don't worry about it right now," he said. "We need to get out of here, Sam, back to the Bunker, back to Kevin. I'll get Crowley..."

Sam didn't object. He turned away, too tired to keep asking questions. Dean made sure his head was secure and his limbs were all in the car before slamming the door shut. He turned at once back to the church.

Crowley was inside. Still tied to a chair, wrapped in chains, he was fully awake and watched Dean march across the creaky floorboards, breathing in dust. Without stopping think or speak, Dean leant down with a knife to scuff the Devil's Trap, breaking it, before moving around the chair to start cutting Crowley loose. With chains and handcuffs designed to trap Demons secured around his wrists and neck, Crowley couldn't break free, but he understood what was happening.

"Leaving, are we?"

"Shut up," Dean retorted, his patience gone, his expression sour. "Just keep quiet, or I'll shut you up myself."

"There's no need to be so rude, Squirrel. I have no reason to object."

Dean shook his head, yanking Crowley onto his feet. He didn't put up a fight on his way out of the church, but when they approached the Impala, Crowley's beady eyes were fixed on him. Dean swung the door open and pushed Crowley inside a little more brutally than strictly necessary.

Back in the front seat, Dean glanced immediately at Sam, who hadn't moved. He slammed his door shut, locking Crowley's to be sure he didn't jump out in some crazed attempt to break free – or worse, to warn passing drivers that someone was tired up in the back seat. The engine roared into action when Dean turned the key. It made him feel safe, despite how his head span. Sam tried to sit up at the sound. Dean watched him worriedly.

"Are you alright?"

Sam looked as if he were trying to nod. From the back, Crowley laughed. Dean was about to get annoyed, but realised they needed to get back to the Bunker, to make sure Kevin was alright, to find out what happened to Castiel. Anxiety burned in Dean's chest. He didn't know what had happened up in Heaven. He started driving.

It would be a long trip back home. Even in the first five minutes wandering through the darkness, headlights illuminating the ground a few feet ahead of them, Dean knew that Crowley was going to speak to him. Any moment now – the Demon speaking over his shoulder, watching him drive. Dean wondered whether he should stick him in the trunk, despite the fact that he was currently harmless. With his jaw clenched shut, Dean kept his eyes focused on the road, ignoring it when Crowley stared at him in the rear-view mirror.

"What happened tonight?" Crowley asked curiously.

Dean didn't answer. He didn't even look up. He couldn't get his thoughts straight and couldn't stop his heart from beating sickeningly in his chest. He felt as if Crowley could sense it. It became more and more clear with each passing moment that something was horribly wrong. He wondered whether he had just witnessed the death of thousands of Angels or whether they had all fallen from Grace...

"Something clearly went very wrong for you," Crowley carried on, his tone as businesslike as ever. "You took Sam away the moment he was going to cure me - _really_ cure me. What happened there, then? Who betrayed you? Who tipped you off?"

Dean's grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. Normally, he would have answered Crowley, would have told him to shut up, but something had changed tonight. Even he could sense it. Something awful had happened and it kept him quiet.

In the silence, a curious thought seemed to cross Crowley's mind. Dean caught his eyes squinting in the review mirror.

"Where's your Angel?"

The Impala stopped – hard. Out on an open road, a deserted path. Sam jolted forward in his sleep, making Dean feel immediately guilty, but he didn't wake up. Dean turned around and glared back at Crowley with a deadly expression.

"If you don't shut your trap," he said in a low voice, "I swear to God I'll to turn this car around and torture you in that church myself. Do you understand me?"

Crowley didn't look scared, but he was surprised. His wide eyes fixed on Dean's.

"Sorry to offend..."

Annoyed, Dean turned back to the wheel. His worry was being swiftly replaced by anger. He started driving. It calmed his nerves.

The Angels could have fallen anywhere. Dean was wholly conscious of the fact as he kept his eyes fixed on the road, wondering if his headlights might catch sight of some figure, some body lying on the ground nearby. He remembered Castiel appearing like that. It made him feel wide awake. He hoped the Angels would still have their powers and would be able to look after themselves while he made sure Sam was okay.

"You know, that church did have windows," Crowley remarked into the silence, his voice calm. "Sam broke one himself, in fact. I saw what happened."

Dean shook his head, refusing to believe it. "Whatever you saw back there, I'm not interested in talking about it."

"I know Angels when I see them, Dean. I know they fell."

Dean glanced at the rear-view mirror once. Crowley didn't stop staring at him, waiting for a reaction. For a fleeting moment, he considered asking Crowley what it meant when Angels fell like this. He thought better of it upon remembering that he was a Demon. Dean didn't want to hear any more bad news.

"It's none of your business what happened out there, Crowley. Will you shut up about it?"

"Not my business?" Crowley repeated. He laughed. "Heaven and Hell is my business, Dean. Have you forgotten that?"

"Yeah, well, no one's here to save the King of Hell."

Crowley considered the matter. Something seemed to bother him, but he put the thought aside, sitting up straighter in the backseat.

"I take it that Castiel is amongst those who fell?"

Dean didn't answer, but when he closed his eyes for a second, Crowley seemed to gather what it meant.

"Who's responsible for that?"

Dean shook his head, growing more impatient. In a low voice, he murmured, "I don't know what sick pleasure you're getting from this, Crowley, but I don't want to hear it."

"It's no pleasure of mine," Crowley assured him. "If someone wants the Angels out of Heaven, what do you suppose they'll want done with the Demons running around earth?"

Dean didn't answer, but he thought about it. Metatron sounded like a crazy bastard who forgot what it meant to be an Angel in the first place. As the only Angel left up in Heaven, he probably wouldn't care much what happened down on earth, especially to those he banished.

Crowley remained surprisingly quiet from that point on. Dean considered it a blessing, despite how much he wished by this point that Demons slept and didn't just sit staring for hours. He could tell Crowley was scheming on some level, weighing out his options, probably planning how best to overthrow Dean at the right time. He was calmly prepared for it. He didn't suppose anything could shock him more than what he saw falling from Heaven.

It was almost a seven hour drive back to the Men of Letters Bunker. Dean pulled up the Impala to the entrance of the place, feeling relieved the trip was over. It was still dark outside, with black and blue clouds looming high above them. Dean stood in the cold morning air, noticing that out on the horizon, flares of brilliant red, orange, and yellow were beginning to creep into view. He could feel the cold, refreshing air surrounding the nearby trees, which drooped and bowed with the weight of recent rainfall. The ground was soft and muddy under leaves when he moved towards Sam's door.

Sam was already awake. He had taken a long moment to rub his face and stretch before pushing the Impala door open.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked him the moment he was in earshot.

Sam staggered to his feet, standing taller than Dean. He looked exhausted, but better after a night's worth of sleep.

"I'm doing alright."

"Let's get you inside."

Dean locked the Impala doors, much to the annoyance of Crowley, who seemed offended that he thought he'd run away in this condition. Grabbing Sam's arm to keep him steady, Dean headed straight for the Bunker. The place smelt like dust, books, and old metal, likely with the addition of dirt and sweat at Sam and Dean's arrival. The moment they made it inside, allowing the door to slam behind them, a figure appeared down the hall.

"Dean!"

It was Kevin. His hair was messier than normal and he had dark bags under his eyes.

"You're up early," remarked Dean.

"I didn't sleep."

Dean didn't ask why. He was helping Sam into the room, feeling safe for the first time in hours, days. "I got you, Sam."

"Is he alright?" asked Kevin, stricken.

Dean couldn't answer. He wanted to say that they got everything wrong, that Naomi had barely warned them in time, that Sam was nearly a dead man – again. All he could do was shake his head, trying to keep Sam upright. "A little help here?"

Kevin swooped in without question, but he was curious. "Did it work? Did he finish the trials? I thought –"

"It was a trap," Dean told him, clarifying what he'd heard over the phone. "Naomi was right – it would have killed Sam. Now can we get he to his damn room already?"

Kevin stared for a moment, before supporting more of Sam's weight. All Dean could picture was the Angels falling overhead, Cas being gone. If he had lost Sam tonight... he didn't want to think about it. He was moving now, clutching at Dean's shoulder for support. They headed across the hall.

Sam's room was dark and plain. Dean barely saw it as he helped him, trying to support his heavier frame. Even when he heaved him onto the bed, he noticed Sam's face was torn in desolation.

"You'll be alright, Sammy," he said in a low voice. "We're safe here."

Sam might have tried to nod. He rolled over and tried to sleep on top of the covers. For a moment, all Kevin and Dean could do was glance at each other, hoping he'd be fine by the time he woke up. They left him in peace.

When they headed back into the main room of the Bunker, Kevin looked nervous. He probably sensed something was wrong – if not because of the failed trials, then because of how Dean was acting. Kevin rubbed a hand over his own arm distractedly.

"What happened tonight, Dean?" he asked, as if he couldn't withhold the question any longer. "Everything went crazy here, I – I didn't know what I was supposed to do."

"I'll explain everything," Dean said in a low voice, "but I need you to help me with Crowley first."

Kevin nodded. "Where is he?"

Dean showed him. Outside, they could hear birds beginning to welcome the sun from the highest trees. They dragged Crowley out of the Impala together. He shook in their grasp, but didn't struggle as much as Dean expected.

"Kevin," Crowley greeted boldly. "Nice to know the gang's all here."

Kevin's expression was cold. Dean almost regretted bringing him out here, but he seemed able to take it. He slammed the Impala door shut behind Crowley and they headed back inside.

"Lovely place."

Crowley examined the Bunker with eager eyes on their way in, noticing it when Dean broke and repaired different traps and warding signs systematically to allow him through. The place was designed for this.

"Where should we put him?" asked Kevin. He had noticed Crowley staring around didn't seem pleased about it.

"In the back," Dean answered. "There's a dungeon – I'll show you."

Kevin didn't have time to look impressed. They dragged Crowley across the Bunker.

Dean was glad to put their dungeon to some use. The room was dark and cold behind its secret door, a chair already sitting there, ready for the chains and handcuffs holding Crowley still. Kevin seemed pleased for the first time, as if he couldn't imagine a better place to put the King of Hell.

Crowley looked at the room blankly.

"Not exactly a five-star hotel, is it?"

"Just take the damn seat, would you?"

Crowley didn't fight. Not for the first time, Dean noticed he complied with minimal resistance. He thought Crowley might have accepted that this was his end. Kevin had already backed up as if he expected Crowley to reveal he was free any moment now. There was a harsh expression on his face. Dean decided they should leave, feeling tired for the first tome.

"I'll come back later," he swore in a low voice.

Crowley smiled, but said nothing. With that, they left.

"Dean, I need to understand what happened."

They were back in the main part of the bunker, in the library. Dean took a seat at the big table and Kevin followed him hastily.

"Whatever questions you've got, Kevin, shoot."

He considered it for a moment, looking nervous.

"I heard everything over the phone," he said slowly. "Dean, what happened? Whatever trials Castiel did, it definitely wasn't written on the Angel tablet. I spent all night reading it over. It was never even mentioned."

"I know."

"Then what did he do?"

Dean shook his head, breathing in heavily. "He was tricked into doing tasks for some sort of Spell."

"A Spell? To what?"

Dean didn't know how to explain it. Inside the Bunker, there were no windows, no view of what had happened outside last night. He gave Kevin a pained smile, glad he had been spared the sight, until eventually all that worry, all that confusion got the better of him. He thought it was best to say it all at once. He felt tense, overwhelmed. He tried to sit up, clearing his throat.

"They Angels, they... well, they fell. They were cast out of Heaven."

Kevin's eyes lit up. A cold chill seemed to run over him. "All of them?"

"Looks like it."

He was astounded. When he struggled for words, Dean realised how unbearably quiet it was here. The cold chill of early morning affected even this part of the hideout and made him feel like this was the end, somehow. Closure to all the Trials, all the pain they had faced...

"Dean, I – I think there's something you need to see."

Kevin's tone was urgent, hopeful. Dean was surprised. "What is it?"

"Take a look at this."

Kevin jumped out of his seat and Dean followed him, ignoring his exhaustion. He hating the idea of going to bed, so was glad when Kevin lead him into the main war room. There were papers strew across a global table, data that had been printed and mapped out.

"What's this?" asked Dean, surprised.

Kevin looked up, his eyes full of some growing hope. "Like I said, this place went crazy last night. Everything started lighting up and charting down information about some disturbance that happened. Dean, I think it had something to do with the Angels falling. I couldn't work out what it was at first – Demons, or monsters, or something – but it's obvious now."

"What does this mean?" Dean asked quickly, picking up the nearest chart and squinting at it. "The Men of Letters had some sort of – of way to track Angels?"

"Yes," Kevin answered simply. "Well, I think so – they at least knew when Angels entered and left the Earth's atmosphere from Heaven. They probably knew when Demons rose from Hell too – here, have a look at this."

He pointed towards the table displaying a world map. There were red dots flashing across it. Dean barely dared to believe it.

"All over the world," said Kevin, "all over these maps, this place detected a disturbance. I think it's because of the Angels, Dean. I really do. With this data, this equipment..."

"Yes?"

Dean looked at him seriously, waiting for him to say it.

"I think there might be a way to find the Angels," said Kevin in a rush, "to save them."

Dean couldn't believe it. For the first time, he felt a rush of hope. Any way of reversing what happened, any small sliver of hope, was enough to take a huge weight off of his shoulders.

"And Cas?" he asked suddenly.

Kevin's expression fell, slowly. He realised Castiel hadn't contacted Dean. For a moment, it was obvious that he feared the worst, until he nodded, acting brave.

"We can find him, Dean," he said. "I really think we can."

Dean tried to nod, but it ended up more as a pained duck away from confronting his worry. He looked back at the paper in his hands, which made absolutely no sense to him. Kevin waited for him to speak.

"Well, we'll try out a few locations," said Dean determinedly, "try to track any populated areas for fallen Angels. Same as we always do – we'll look for clues and work on that. Once we find our first Angel, we can start asking questions and find out how to fix all of this."

"Yeah, definitely," agreed Kevin slowly.

He didn't sound confident. Dean looked up, raising his eyebrows until he spoke.

"It's just – Dean, we don't know what happened to the Angels. We don't know whether they fell from Grace, if they're human now, if they've lost their memories. We don't even know if there's a way to reverse this – this Spell."

Dean didn't want to hear it. The thought made him feel sick and he clenched his jaw shut, trying to find a way to fix this. He flicked the paper in his hands onto the nearest surface.

"We'll worry about that when we find one of them," he said plainly. "Until then – you've done great work so far, Kevin. Honestly."

Kevin tried to smile. "Thanks, Dean. You know, you should probably try to get some rest."

Dean didn't want to, if he was honest, but he didn't feel like standing around worrying about Angels just yet either. The idea of being able to return to his own room to think about this was comforting.

"You should try to sleep too," he said. "There's plenty of space here, you can have your own room. I don't want you going all Travis Bickle on us."

"Travis – ?"

"Taxi Driver," Dean interrupted helpfully. When Kevin didn't get it, he said, "You know, the movie. Guy doesn't sleep at night, becomes a taxi driver, goes all crazy? Actually – nevermind. Just try to get some rest, would you?"

"I will," said Kevin quickly. "It's a relief to have you and Sam back here, Dean."

They parted ways shortly after this. Dean stopped off at Sam's door quietly on the way to his bedroom to make sure he was alright. He was fast asleep on his back, his face turned towards the open door, looking peaceful. Dean just hoped he'd be alright when he awoke. He headed for his own bedroom.

The place was comfortable. Dean realised this with a faint feeling of happiness that carried through his chest alongside hope of saving the Angels. The place was really his own – it was comfortable the moment he walked in the door, with the perfect amount of books, clothes, CDs and records strewn across the place to remind him that this is where he lived, not just some cheap motel he rented out for one night's worth of sleep.

Dean put a _Bon Jovi_ single on low with his record player and sat on the edge of his bed, tearing off his boots. They were covered in dry dirt and he placed them on the floor by his night-table, noticing where mud had pressed against the side of the ankle. He remembered when that had happened: he had been staring up at the Angels falling, trying to gain his footing. He thought faintly that he'd have to clean his boots later, but didn't want to think about it.

Not bothering to look for something else to wear, Dean tore off his jeans and plaid, staying in a t-shirt and shorts. He threw the clothes across the room and lay back in bed, exhausted. The record kept on playing, making him feel calm. He tried to get lost in the sound for a while, closing his eyes, his arms tucked behind his head.

_"We're halfway there, livin' on a prayer. Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear. Livin' on a prayer..."_

Dean's mind wandered to the Men of Letters. Even in the worst possible circumstance, with Angels being cast out of Heaven, this place held answers and gave him hope. The information Kevin had found confirmed that the Men of Letters were tracking Heaven's activities – or at least when Angels returned to Earth. It made Dean wonder who else was aware of it. He remembered the last words his mother had ever spoken to him: " _Angels are watching over you_." He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, she had known about all this.

Before falling asleep, Dean prayed where he lay. It went without question – he prayed directly to Castiel, asking where he was, asking for a sign that he was alive. He got no answer. The record had slowed to a stop. In the rhythmic fuzz of the needle looping around, Dean began to feel drowsy, until he drifted off to sleep. He didn't dream well. He knew something was missing, something had gone terribly wrong.

When he awoke later in the day, Dean glanced wearily at the clock and sat up. The first thing on his mind was his failed prayers. It was as though the four hours of dreaming had lasted only an instant, as if minutes ago he had been praying. He rubbed his face tiredly, rolling out of bed, and searched for some fresh clothes. He switched off the record player, which had kept spinning. The room was too quiet, even when he headed for a shower, taking off the dirt that covered him from that churchyard.

The bunker's main rooms were empty when he headed through them. Kevin and Sam would be asleep, and Crowley: busy silently plotting against the Winchesters or worse in his dungeon. Dean headed into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, but on his way through the doorway of one of the rooms, spotted a bronze disc fused to the ground. There were eight of them in total, lining the walls of the main section of the bunker. This disc in particular caught his attention, because it was showed an Angel Banishing Sigil. If that remained here, Cas couldn't show up.

The Men of Letters must have been scared of Angels. Dean felt uncomfortable at the thought, confused about it. Things were corrupt up in Heaven and had been like that for a long time, but for someone to create a bunker and keep Angels away with a huge bronze disc set in stone – that was a whole new level of paranoia. Dean would have removed the disc if he could and if he trusted that Metatron wouldn't take advantage of it. Assuming Metatron even knew how dangerous Dean was. He turned away from the Sigil, heading for the kitchen.

Dean made coffee, feeling more awake by the first sip and comforted by the warm mug against his fingertips. He felt useless standing around here, waiting for Sam and Kevin to wake up. Castiel and his failed prayers played heavily on his mind, so in an attempt to banish burning curiosity and give himself a sense of purpose, he headed outside. The first breath of fresh air made a huge difference to his temperament, as well as the warm sunlight that filtered down through the trees. It was peaceful outside, barely sunset. The Impala stood safe with the shade of treetops washing over it gently.

Breathing in deeply, Dean started walking. He wasn't sure where to, but the cool breeze and shades of bright green guided him onwards. Praying out here might give him a better shot at being heard by Castiel, so he wandered far enough through the trees to feel confident in his fragile plan and drew to a stop. With a gun in pocket, he closed his eyes, feeling safe. He stayed like this for a while, patches of sunlight warming his skin, until he was ready to speak.

"I don't know know whether we get better reception out here," he joked quietly, "but I'm running out of options. So, here it goes... Are you there, Cas?"

There came no response. Choosing not to lose heart, he tried again.

"Cas?" he repeated. "Can you hear me, Cas?"

There was a flutter of wings.

Dean's eyes flew open. He blinked into the sunlight, glancing around, but he was alone. It took a few seconds before the sound repeated and he saw it: a murder of crows was fluttering high up in the trees. They squawked down at him, mocking him with their sudden decision to speak about their presence only now. Dean could have swore. He felt desperate now, his beating heart falling.

"Castiel?"

There was nothing. Dean couldn't take it. For a fleeting moment, he felt guilty. Castiel might be busy helping his fallen brothers and sisters, or taking time off alone to mourn them, or worse. Dean couldn't bring himself to ask about it. He lost the will to summon Cas at all, lest it should cause more pain.

"Just tell me when you can hear me, Cas, alright? Tell me you're alright. Things here are fine. Sam is – well, he's alive. We're safe. I..."

There was nothing else he could say. It bothered him for a few moments. Only one idea came to mind, so he spoke quietly.

"I'll keep searching for you..."

This concluded everything. Dean waited a little bit longer in vain, pressing his weight to his toes, before turning away in defeat. He didn't want to think about what silence meant. Months ago, it had meant Naomi was brainwashing Cas, taking control over him and cutting off all contact to the Winchesters. There was no guessing what Metatron had done to Castiel after forcing him to be a part of that Spell. The thought made Dean feel sick.

The bunker was stuffy compared to the outside world, but warm and welcoming nonetheless. No one was awake yet, but Dean didn't let this bother him. Someone, surely, would be up within the next hour, so he busied himself with preparing some well-needed fuel from scratch. He decided to make burgers. All the fresh ingredients were waiting for him in the kitchen – onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, beef, burger buns – and he set to it with determination.

Sam was the first one to wake up. He wandered into the kitchen at the sound and smell of Dean's cooking. He had fresh clothes on, but his lion's mane of hair was messy around his tired face.

"You're just in time!" said Dean happily. "Food'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Great," said Sam honestly, smirking. He moved around the kitchen to where the coffee grinder was. Before making himself a cup, he brought a hand up to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked him curiously, remembering what he had been through. He neglected the tomatoes he was slicing to look at Sam's half-covered face, waiting for his reaction.

"I'm – I'm good," Sam managed, sounding faintly surprised to say it. "Alive, anyway."

Dean wasn't wholly convinced he was alright. There were dark bags under Sam's reddened eyes. He turned back to the cutting board in front of him, saying, "Well, you'll feel as good as new once you try one of these – I've got the recipe near _perfected_."

He heard Sam laugh, but didn't catch his grin. Dean turned to flip the three burgers cooking on a pan, making sure the temperature was right. It smelt beautiful to him. After a night running around, panicked, confused, this was exactly what he needed.

"So, what do we do about Crowley?" Sam asked. "I mean, how's he doing?"

"Same as always," Dean answered. "Why?"

"He didn't change? Didn't – I dunno – stop being _Crowley_? He said some weird things when I was about to cure him, Dean. He changed."

Dean could have laughed then. He looked up, spatula in hand, eyebrows raised. "He seemed different to you?"

"Yeah, almost completely cured."

"Well, he ain't like that anymore. Sorry, Sam."

A weird expression crossed Sam's face. Dean didn't understand it. Sam's coffee was ready, so he turned away, his eyebrows knitted together. The burgers were almost done. Dean got preoccupied with preparing three plates. They didn't speak for a few minutes, until the food was ready.

"Come on," said Dean, grabbing two plates, "the main room's more comfortable."

Sam followed him without a word, bringing his steaming up of coffee. They left Kevin's meal to cool in peace. Dean's spirits lifted up only when they took two seats opposite each other, burgers in front of them. He took the first bite, relishing in the pure satisfaction of it. Sam soon followed.

"Good, eh?" said Dean through a mouthful of food.

Sam laughed, before waiting to finish the first bite. "It's perfect."

Dean would have been happy staying like this for a few hours, but Sam was bothered by something. It became obvious the second he took another bite, chewing it slowly, shifting where he sat. He put the burger back down. Dean waiting for him to speak, knowing what would come next.

"What happened that night, Dean?" he asked seriously. "You said – you said that Angels were falling?"

Dean didn't want to be reminded of it, but he had no choice. He set his burger down, dusting off his hands, sitting back in his seat. "You saw what happened, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but are you sure it was Angles?"

"I'm sure, Sam," Dean answered shortly, shaking his head. "Before I stopped you from buying a one-way ticket to Hell to cure the King, I spoke to Cas. We were stopped by Naomi. She said something about Metatron tricking Cas into doing trials for a Spell, to banish all Angels from Heaven. Looks like Cas didn't have as much luck as I did when it came to saving his brothers and sisters..."

Sam was stunned. Neglecting his food, his voice became suddenly urgent.

"What happened? If the Angels fell – Dean, where's Cas?"

Dean looked away painfully. All he could do was shake his head. There was too much pain, too much disbelief in all of this for him to explain. Sam understood. He looked crushed, his lips slightly parted. When he turned back to his food, neglecting it, Dean blinked heavily, taking in a deep breath.

"It's not all bad news, anyway," he said in a low voice. "Kevin was here all night and says the Men of Letters were prepared for this sort of thing."

Sam looked up, interested. "How?"

Dean explained it the best he could. Starting from when they had arrived here this morning, he spoke Sam through what Kevin had told him about the information that was printed and mapped out here. Sam was amazed – and clearly uplifted to hear it. They continued eating the moment both of them realised they could form a plan on this, discussing different ways to track down Angelic activity or anything similar based on the little information they had.

When the were done eating, Dean sat back in his chair and enjoyed the feeling of being full, until a nagging feeling of inspiration took over him. He wanted to get something done, wanted to start making some progress on fixing everything that had happened, even in Kevin wasn't awake yet. He eventually stood up from his chair, taking Sam's empty plate and his own in hand.

"I'm going to have a word with Crowley," he announced.

Sam was surprised. He stood up. "I'll come with you."

"Sam – "

"I'm fine, Dean. I swear. I want to know what's going on as much as you do."

There was nothing Dean could say against it. Crowley was locked up, completely harmless, so he had no reason to stop Sam, no matter how dishevelled he looked. Dean put the dishes in the sink and together, they headed straight for the dungeon.

Crowley sat formally in the chair he was chained to as if he had been pleasantly waiting for the Winchesters to arrive.

"Hello, boys."

"Evening, Crowley," Dean mocked. "Great to see you stuck around."

He hadn't realised just how good it would feel to see they had finally caught Crowley, finally outsmarting him. Crowley's beady eyes flickered between the Winchesters, then to the doorway behind them.

"Is Kevin not joining us this evening?"

"He's got other things to do," answered Sam, who for some reason wasn't angry.

"We thought it'd be best to speak to you ourselves," Dean added, letting the door swing shut behind them with a daunting boom. "For old time's sake."

Crowley wasn't shaken. He looked positively unimpressed.

"This is how things are going to work," Dean carried on, his tone forceful. "You comply with everything we ask of you and we won't gank your ass our of existence for all of eternity. Capisce?"

"Actually," said Sam, "it's suppose to be 'capisci', it's –"

Dean glanced to his left, glaring at Sam wryly.

"Right," murmured Sam, "Sorry."

"What's all of this for?" Crowley asked, ignoring their little deviation. "Surely you can't expect to keep me here forever, boys? What ever happened to curing me?"

Sam glanced towards Dean for an answer.

"The plan changed," said Dean flatly. "We wanted the Gates of Hell closed, but not at that price. So, we're here to ask you a few questions."

Crowley puffed out his chest a little, considering the matter. "Carry on."

"What do you know about the Angel Tablet?" asked Dean, deciding to start from the top.

"Nothing," answered Crowley shortly. "I couldn't read a word of it. When I brought it to Kevin, he bravely refused my threats. He won that fight."

Dean saw Sam glance at him out of the corner of his eye, stunned by how easily Crowley had answered. Dean squinted, not believing a word of it, before he asked the next question.

"Did you know the Trials would kill Sam?"

"No," he said. "I had no idea about any of it. Again, thanks to Kevin..."

"How did Abaddon find us?" asked Sam suddenly, visibly bothered by the idea.

"I bit you," Crowley reminded him. "I used your blood to contact Hell."

Dean was confused. They weren't torturing Crowley yet, weren't using any information against him, yet here he was, blurting out everything he knew. In that instant, Dean broke, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"Have you got a grudge against Hell or something?" he demanded.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, his head tilting. "Aren't you happy with a bit of honesty, for once?"

"Why?" asked Sam. His eyes were huge, as if he were seeing Crowley clearly for the first time. Crowley responded with an impatient, simpering look.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Moose. You didn't cure me. I just want to purpose a proposition."

Dean wasn't convinced. He felt immediately defensive, reluctant to hear another word. "I'm not buying your bullshit, Crowley."

"Don't you want to listen to what I have to offer?" Crowley asked him. "I'll tell you everything I know."

"And why would you do that?"

He looked at Dean as if it were obvious. "All my old plans don't matter anymore. Can't you see that? Abaddon's running the show down in Hell now. No matter what Sam did to banish her, she'll be back all the same. You only put her back in her kingdom."

"So, what's your deal?" asked Dean warily. "You're willing to tell us everything to – what? To lead us towards Abaddon? In the hope that we'll kill her for you? We haven't even tortured you and you expect us just to believe you've given up?"

"It's not giving up," said Crowley coldly. "I'm protecting myself from worse enemies than the two of you."

"You think Abaddon's worse than us?" Dean asked, laughing.

"Bigger fish dwell in deeper waters," Crowley answered in a murmur. "In this business, you never quite know what competition lurks further beneath the surface."

Abaddon was bad, but Dean believed that as Winchesters, they were worse. In the time it took for him to shake his head, glaring, Crowley looked from Sam to Dean and back again several times, pressing his lips together.

"I have information," he said quietly. "More information on Hell than you could dream of getting anywhere else. If we could set our differences aside –"

"No," said Dean flatly, cutting his words short. "No way are we making a damn Demon deal with the King of Hell!"

"I never said anything about Demons," retorted Crowley, "and I might not be the King of Hell much longer."

"You're a Demon!"

"That doesn't mean I can't make an honest deal, Squirrel."

"Dean," said Sam in a low voice, "I don't think –"

Batting a hand impatiently at Sam and pulling a sour face, Dean kept his eyes fixed on Crowley.

"You have some nerve, you know that?"

"I'm honoured," Crowley mocked.

Before Dean could muster up the will to insult him more, a faint look of defeat crossed Crowley's face. He pulled on the chains around his wrists, folding his hands together and preparing to speak. Dean forced himself to keep quiet.

"Listen, boys," Crowley began seriously, "I'm not cured any more than Sam is dead. What I am, however, is a source of valuable information. Team up with me and you'll get the only chance you have of standing up against Abaddon. If you release me, we can fix this before things really get ugly."

"I'm not buying your bullshit," said Dean coldly again, "and I'm not seeing how things could be any worse."

"Why take that risk?"

Dean wanted to retort, but Sam grabbed at his arm, catching his attention.

"Dean... he might have a point."

Dean turned to him, stunned. Sam's face was full of hope and desolation. Dean stared at him for a long time, trying to work out what he was thinking.

"You're looking for the Angels that fell, aren't you?" asked Crowley, interrupting them. "Everyone who fell from Heaven?"

Dean turned, his attention caught. "So what if we are?"

"Then you should know: a lot of beings will want to make a business out of the Angels that fell. Being here, I don't know anything that's going on outside, of course... but if you want to save your precious Angel before someone else takes him, Squirrel, you'll need to know which Demons are searching for him."

Dean was stunned. "You think someone will find Cas before us?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows, his head turning. "Well, the clock is ticking, after all."

It was difficult to tell whether he was lying. Abaddon would be running Hell with determination and Metatron wouldn't care what happened to the fallen Angels now, but trusting Crowley's word on this? Dean didn't see how it was a good idea. As if to push his offer a little harder, Crowley spoke again.

"Abaddon is still out there," he said in a low voice. "Whoever did this to the Angels... Well, I can tell you for free: they won't be friends of mine."

"Can I speak to you outside, Dean?" asked Sam suddenly.

Dean didn't want to, but he felt like he had no choice. He turned to his brother, noticing the way his eyebrows raised hopefully. "Make it quick."

Crowley let them go, not that they waited for his approval. When they were out of earshot, standing in the near darkness, a door between them and the dungeon, Sam spoke.

"I think Crowley might have a point."

Dean couldn't take any more than this. "Seriously?"

"No, seriously – if Abaddon starts running Hell, there's no reason why Crowley wouldn't tell us what he knows. We're the only shot he has at making it out of this alive."

"Yeah, and that's exactly why he'll double-cross us, Sam!"

"I'll watch over him."

Dean stared. "You'll what?"

"I want to help him, Dean – I can do this. If I keep an eye on him, he won't be able to pull any tricks. We can make a deal, we can sort this out."

"You just came back from being two seconds away from death!" Dean reminded him forcibly. "Sam, we were trying to close the Gates of Hell forever – what makes you think Crowley is just going to trust us after that? What makes you think he doesn't hold a grudge against us? You can't solve everything."

"I'm better now, Dean. This is who we are – this is what we do. We can't just keep Crowley tied up like this. From his reaction to all of this, it sounds like Abaddon's a way bigger threat to him than we are – especially with the Trials cancelled and no Angels left to help us. Who knows what sort of uproar Hell is going to go through now, with a captured King and absolutely no one from Heaven trying to stop them?"

Dean considered it for a long time. At the mention of the Angels, his eyes locked to Sam's and he realised, with a heavy feeling of dread, that he was right. All Hell really was going to break loose. It damaged the glowing flicker of hope Dean had gained earlier upon hearing they could save the Angels. Even with thousands of fallen Angels, Demons could start to track them down systematically, moving with much more precision than Sam, Kevin, and Dean could. They would need all the help they could get to make even a slight difference.

"You know what... fine," Dean murmured, his expression heavy, "but this is your call, Sam, not mine. Take the damn key."

He held it out. Sam took it, his eyes lighting up – not in happiness, but in hope. He turned back to the dungeon and Dean followed him sulkily, shaking his head behind his back. The moment he emerged from the doorway, stepping from Sam's shadow, he spoke to Crowley.

"You're free from this room, but this place is sealed from top to bottom. No Demons get in or out. Don't play any tricks, you understand me?"

Sam unlocked the chains around his neck and wrists. Crowley didn't flinch, nor make any sudden movements, as if to prove that he was keeping his word.

"You're the only thing keeping me safe from Hell, boys."

Dean had a bad feeling when Crowley started to stand, but they were both aware of Ruby's Knife, which he held by his hip. Sam had taken a cautious step back and stared down at Crowley.

"This is much better," Crowley remarked. Glancing around, he added, "You can trust me, for now. Like I said, there are worse threats out there."

Dean didn't believe him, but he didn't see what choice he had. He glared at Crowley until he started heading out of the room. Shooting a look towards Sam, he spoke his mind.

"Kevin won't be pleased."

He wasn't. When Crowley, Sam, and Dean walked into the main hall, Kevin was awake and he froze. His eyes were huge, his mouth agape. Dean was well aware that to him, it would be like seeing Azazel walk free.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Kevin," said Dean seriously, "don't freak."

"Don't freak?" he repeated. "Don't _freak_? He killed my mother, Dean!"

Dean didn't have the capacity to deal with yet another thing to feel bad about. He had completely forgotten to take Kevin into consideration when deciding to free the King of Hell. Crowley said nothing, looking utterly unfazed, while Sam stood tall and guilty.

"Your call, your mess, Sam."

Sam turned to Dean, his expression falling into incredulous annoyance.

Before either of them could do anything, Kevin violently scooped up the notes he was working on.

"Sure, Crowley can stay here," he said hysterically, "but I'm not going anywhere near him!"

"Kevin –"

"No, Dean! I won't sit here with _him_ joining into all our plans! We can't even trust him!"

There was pain in his eyes. Dean couldn't take any more of it. He was right, anyway.

"Crowley, go to your room."

Even Sam looked surprised.

"To my room?" Crowley repeated in disbelief.

"There's enough space for you. We'll put a devil's trap around the door so you can't get out unless we say so."

Crowley was outraged. "I thought you said I was free?"

"A bed's better than a chamber," said Dean. "Now, come on."

Kevin still looked furious and hurt. He glared over at them when Dean ushered Crowley across the hall, Sam close at his heels.

Crowley made no further complaints about the change. It unnerved Dean when they headed towards the bedrooms. Even when he glanced around his new room, the Winchesters looming over him, Crowley looked neither angry nor offended anymore. Dean watched him closely while Sam started to trace a Devil's Trap around the doorway's floor in chalk. Half of it stuck out of the room.

"What am I supposed to do in here?" Crowley asked the two of them. "In case you forgot, Demons don't sleep. I don't actually need a bedroom."

"There's books around, a desk, paper, pens – do what you like," Dean answered shortly. "This is as much freedom as you're going to get."

Crowley wasn't pleased. Besides the fact that he wasn't chained up and had sworn to make a deal with the Winchesters, this was nothing more than a bigger prison cell.

"If you need anything else," Sam added when he completed the trap, standing up, "we'll bring it in for you."

"Brilliant," Crowley muttered, "my very own Winchester room service. I couldn't have picked a better fate for you myself."

They left shortly after this. Something about seeing Crowley standing free in a room, able to use his powers, made Dean feel instinctively on edge. Sam didn't seem to relate. As much as Dean tried to catch his eye on the way out, his expression unamused, Sam ignored it. With Crowley's bedroom door closed, Dean had to settle for reaching for Sam's arm, catching his attention.

"I don't know about this, Sam," he said. "I mean – Crowley, really? We're letting _Crowley_ walk free?"

"Well, if it'll help us find Cas, what choice do we have?"

Dean glanced away for a moment, trying to find even ground here. "We could have kept him locked up."

"It's more of a metaphor," Sam told him. "Crowley doesn't care about being locked up, he just wants to make sure we're even. He wouldn't want to be anywhere Demons could actually find him."

"You're sure about that? Because the way I'm seeing it, he seems pretty damn happy to test the waters here."

"I'm sure, Dean," Sam swore. "He knows we're his best chance at survival. Just because he's still a Demon, doesn't mean he's not better."

Dean stared, stunned. He realised what this meant and where all of this was going. Sam honestly thought Crowley deserved the benefit of the doubt.

"No," he said flatly, shaking his head. "No, Sam – don't you start down that road again, not now."

"It's what I did, Dean," Sam reasoned, his tone urgent. "You gave me that chance. I was so close to fixing this, so close to healing Crowley! Who's to say it won't have some sort of good affect on him?"

Dean didn't want to hear it. Simple as that – there was so much going on, so much they had to fix and defend themselves against. Having Sam stand here and tell him now that he wanted to risk everything just to give Crowley a chance was too much.

"You don't understand," Sam said desperately, facing him. "Dean, I need this."

If things were different, Dean would have given Sam a different answer – a straight, harsh 'no' that would end all of this – but he had lost Cas. He wasn't going to argue and lose his little brother too. It shook him to realise that this was the only reason why Sam was agreeing at all. If he wasn't trying to root for second chances, he would never have told Dean to let Crowley free in order to find Cas.

"Alright," Dean murmured painfully, "he can stay where he is, but if this fucks up, I'm not giving him a third chance. We're in this together, Sam. Remember that. The moment he turns, we turn against him."

Sam didn't smile, but he looked relieved. He nodded in understanding. Dean turned away.

They had to keep on fighting – that's the only thing Dean knew for sure when they headed back into the library of the Men of Letter's Bunker. They had a small chance of fixing all of this, of taken the Angels back from where Metatron had let them fall. Even with Sam going through some late remorse over the unfinished Trials, Dean wasn't going to let this affect the only thing they had left: each other.

Kevin was still sitting at the main table, notes strewn around him, dark bags under his eyes. He watched the Winchesters approach cautiously, glancing around.

"Did you lock him up?"

"Yeah," Sam told him, taking a chair at the table across from him. Dean followed. "He'll be confined to that room from now on."

Kevin wasn't happy. With something like a nod, he turned back to his work, apparently engrossed in it. Dean sat back in his seat, glad all three of them were here so they could finally get started on their only shot at making things right again. Turning to Kevin, he spoke.

"So, how are we going to turn you into our very own Angel Hunter?"


End file.
